


Home in Peace, Dreaming of War

by RizaHawkeyePierce



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Family, Friendship, Gen, Homecoming, Panic Attacks, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:40:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26364319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RizaHawkeyePierce/pseuds/RizaHawkeyePierce
Summary: After a lifetime, an eternity, Hawkeye comes home to Crabapple Cove, but adjusting is harder than he thought.
Relationships: B. J. Hunnicutt & Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce & Daniel Pierce
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Home in Peace, Dreaming of War

Hawkeye took what felt like the first deep breath he’d taken in days as he stepped through the door out of the plane. Hawkeye felt uncomfortable on planes - suspicious that the pressurized air would run out, feeling trapped and full of anxious energy during the times he was confined to his seat. Naturally, he compensated by drinking as much booze as the flight attendants would give him (and stealing some from the guy who’d fallen asleep next to him). Unfortunately, this led to him being violently sick in the airplane bathroom (a small, horrible, loud room that was much worse than the rest of the plane) and enduring the glares of the line of waiting passengers when he finally emerged and staggered his way back to his seat.

As he blinked in the sunlight of Maine for the first time in a hundred years, he searched for his dad in the waiting crowd, a vice clenching around his chest. (So maybe the nervousness and excessive drinking wasn’t entirely due to the long flight.) It had been so long, and he’d changed so much…

As the passengers descended the stairs to the tarmac, there were cries of joy from the watching crowd as returning soldiers rushed into the arms of their loved ones. Hawkeye gripped the handle of his bag tighter in his sweaty hand as he scanned the crowd, looking for one familiar face in a sea of strangers.

There he was - Daniel Pierce, dressed in his best suit and hat (both at least ten years old), quietly standing to the side of the waiting crowd. He looked more-or-less unchanged from the last time Hawkeye had seen him, though with Hawkeye’s own graying hair, seeing his father was much more like looking into a mirror than he was used to. Daniel caught sight of him and beamed, his hand jumping up to cover his mouth. Hawkeye felt the pinpricks of tears starting in his eyes as he shouldered his way through the crowd to his father, and then they were hugging fiercely, tears streaming down both of their faces.

“Hawkeye. Ben. It’s you. It’s good to see you.”

“I missed you, Dad.”

Daniel took his son’s face in his hands, looking him up and down as though unable to believe he was in one piece.

“What, am I missing a leg I didn’t know about?” said Hawkeye, wiping tears from his cheeks.

Daniel’s soft laughter turned almost immediately into sobs, and he pulled Hawkeye to him again - a hand protectively around the back of his neck, the way he’d held Hawkeye as a child. Hawkeye kissed his father’s cheek and held him tighter, the crowd turning into a blur around them as they clung to each other and cried.

  
  


It was a two-hour drive back to Crabapple Cove. At first, Hawkeye chattered away, telling stories and jokes, pointing out scenery he’d missed in the last couple years. Daniel chuckled softly at his son’s jokes as he steered the car along the winding road up the coast, the windows rolled down, the breeze ruffling both men’s hair. About an hour into the drive Hawkeye’s words petered out, and they sat in silence for a moment, Daniel watching the road, Hawkeye looking out the window at the trees and the coast, smelling the pine and salt from the ocean.

Daniel hummed quietly to himself for a little while, then glanced over at Hawkeye. “Something bothering you?”

Hawkeye huffed a laugh. Somehow, his dad could always tell, even still, even now. He wiped his hands, suddenly sweaty, on his thighs, on the last olive drab pants he ever planned to wear. “Did you, uh...did you get my last letter?”

“I believe so,” said Daniel, mild and measured as always. “You told me you spent some time in the psych ward at evac hospital, correct?”

“That’s the one.” Hawkeye looked at the floor, at the dashboard, out the window, his eyes skittering over any surface as long as it wasn’t his father. Another silence stretched between them.

“Did you want to talk about it?” Daniel asked.

“No. No, I did enough talking while I was in there.” He fiddled with the window crank, tapped a rhythm with his foot.

“It seems like something’s bugging you. Would it help to tell me what it is?”

With these words from his father, Hawkeye remembered being nine years old, trying to hide a bruise on his cheek and torn shirt from a fight while Daniel pulled the truth from him, gently and deftly, as easily as he pulled stitches out of a healing wound. He took a shaky breath.

“I just wondered if you knew that I’d...joined the straightjacket squad, or, or the basket case brigade. But you do know, so that’s good. I’d hate for you not to know your son is missing a few crucial cards out of his deck--” He gripped the door handle tightly, and despite the wind streaming in the open windows, he felt the car closing in on him, felt the air getting thinner, harder to breathe, there wasn’t enough of it--

“Hawkeye,” said Daniel, looking over at his son in concern.

“Pull over,” said Hawkeye, panting. “Pull over. I need to get out.”

Daniel nodded and turned the wheel, pulling the car onto a little area by the side of the road. Hawkeye threw his door open before the car stopped completely and staggered out, clutching at his chest, his heart thumping wildly. The sun was far too bright, and the sound of the car’s engine and the crash of the distant surf seemed far too loud. He bent over, hands on his knees, wondering if he was going to throw up.

“Ben!” said Daniel, getting out of the car and rushing over to him, his face white. He took Hawkeye’s wrist and looked at his watch, counting the beats. “Your heart’s going like a train.”

“Yeah, I’m aware,” said Hawkeye, shaking him off and pacing back and forth.

“You didn’t take anything, did you?”

“No - I drank on the plane, but no amphetamines or morphine or anything.”

“Well, it’ll probably resolve itself in a few minutes.” Daniel took a deep breath, settling back into his usual calm, leaning against the car, disregarding the dirt that was surely smudging his jacket.

“How are you so sure?” Hawkeye demanded, wiping sweat from his face with his hand.

“I’ve seen this sort of thing before, with soldiers coming back.”

“I’m not a soldier!” Hawkeye snapped.

Daniel nodded. “Even so.”

Hawkeye went over to the car and leaned over it, his hands on the roof. The hot metal stung, but it did help clear some of the fog from his mind.

“I really dropped you into it right away, huh?” he muttered, glancing over at his dad.

Daniel gave him a sad smile. “That’s what being a parent is, Ben. You dropped me into your problems from the time you were born. I don’t mind - I also got the privilege of knowing you.”

Hawkeye bowed his head, swallowing against the lump rising in his throat. “I don’t know if you know me anymore, Dad. I feel so different.”

“Then I’ll get to know you again.” He reached out and squeezed Hawkeye’s shoulder, holding on for a moment as Hawkeye’s breathing gradually slowed. “So,” he said, letting go of Hawkeye and wiping his eyes, “have you thought about what you’d like to eat when we get home?”  
Hawkeye smiled. “Someone at the MASH asked me the first thing I wanted to eat, and I said a glass of milk and a big piece of chocolate cake.”

“I’ll try my best, but you know my cakes never rise properly.”

“I know - the one you made for my eleventh birthday was more like a discus.”

“In my defense, that oven is very tempermental.”

Hawkeye laughed. “How about French toast instead?”

“That, I can manage.”

  
  


The sight of the old house hit him in the chest like a sandbag. He got out of the car, clutching his duffel bag to himself, and stared up at the place, the paint peeling a little, a couple bars missing from the porch railing. It was beautiful, perfect, the house he’d spend the rest of his life trying to recreate.

  
  


That night, after the French toast (which was heavenly and everything he’d hoped for), Hawkeye lay on the bed in his childhood room.

Falling asleep shouldn’t have been a problem at this point. He’d left the 4077th (or, where the 4077th had been) yesterday at noon (or was it the day before yesterday?), and took the chopper to Seoul, flew from Seoul to Tokyo, Tokyo to Honolulu, Honolulu to San Francisco (hey Beej, hope you’re doing okay), San Francisco to Denver to Dallas to New York to Maine. What with time zones and all the booze he’d drunk on his various flights, he had no idea how long he’d actually been travelling, but judging by the heavy, sluggish feeling in his limbs and behind his eyes, he’d guess he’d been awake at least thirty-six hours. So, really, he should have dropped off as soon as his body hit the cot. Bed. He meant bed.

And yet.

He turned on his side, the springs in the old twin-size mattress clinking and groaning. The silence and darkness pressed up against him, and he turned over again. He hadn’t thought he’d miss the snores of two other men (yes, Charles, you heard me right), but here he was, half-listening for the sounds of their breathing, assuring him that they were still alive, he was still alive, he wasn’t alone. He flopped on his back. The sheets were tangled around his legs under the comforter. He thrashed around, trying to straighten them. A clock ticked the night away in the hallway.

He flicked the bedside lamp on and went over to the bookshelf, glancing over the books he’d collected as a teenager. _Dracula_ , _A Study in Scarlet_ , _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer_ , _Perelandra._ He selected this last one, folded his pillow, and lay back down to read. But his eyes kept sliding off the words, and his brain didn’t seem to be making much sense of what he was reading, so he tossed the book aside in frustration. He looked at his old clock on the bedside table. 2:43. _Oh-two-forty-three._

He wondered idly where Margaret had ended up. Everyone else had a hometown they were returning to (or perhaps avoiding), but Margaret had never had that. She could be anywhere, and he hadn’t asked her what her plans were. _Stupid._

His mind drifted to that last kiss they’d shared, not planning it, just looking into each other’s eyes and stepping into each other’s arms as though it was where they were supposed to be.

_And you’ll probably never see her again._

Hawkeye groaned and got up. He fished his robe out of his bag and pulled it around himself. It still smelled like the 4077th (gin and sweat and dust and, always, blood), and _I’m so glad I’m home_ and _I wish I was back_ welled up in equal measure.

He crept out of his room, pausing next to his father’s door to listen for deep breathing (being jerked roughly back to memories of sneaking out at sixteen as he did so). Downstairs, he fished the old flashlight out of the utility (read: junk) cabinet by the front door and slipped on a pair of his dad’s shoes. Their feet were the same size, and though he knew he looked odd in a t-shirt, shorts, bathrobe, and loafers, he’d rather wear a pair of Klinger’s old pumps than pull on his combat boots ever again. He wondered what he’d do with the boots. Maybe burn them.

He wandered out to the porch, found the loose board, pulled it up, and shone the flashlight down into the hole underneath. There it was - the bottle of gin he’d hidden there at seventeen. Should be nicely aged by now. He pulled it out, unscrewed the cap, took a pull, and winced - he’d swear the gin from the still was better than this swill he’d paid good money for. What an idiot he’d been. He settled onto the porch swing, idly rocking, and held the bottle in his hands. It was bad enough that he didn’t really want to drink any more (and that was saying something), but still, it was a piece of his life from before, and though he was surrounded by evidence that he _did_ have a life before Korea, it was still hard to remember.

He sat out on the porch, breathing in the smell of the trees, until the sky grew bright with the coming dawn and the jangling phone upstairs burst through the morning quiet. The ringing cut off and he heard his father talking quietly and calmly (his usual manner with a hysterical patient or family member) through the open window to the master bedroom.

Hawkeye replaced the still-mostly-full bottle of gin (maybe his seventeen-year-old self had more sense than he’d thought, if he didn’t drink much of that drain cleaner) under the loose board and headed back inside.

He met his father coming out of the master bedroom, wrapped in his own bathrobe and carrying his old medical bag.

“Hawkeye--you’re awake already?” Daniel said, a little confused.

Hawkeye shrugged. “Trouble?”

Daniel started down the stairs and Hawkeye followed him. “Becky Worthington burned her hand on her mother’s iron. From Martha’s description it doesn’t sound too bad, but I’d still like to check her over. I’m sorry, Hawkeye - I closed the clinic for a few days to help you settle in, but--”

“But you can’t stop emergencies. Don’t worry about it, Dad. I understand. You need any help?”

“No, no, stay here and rest.” He stopped in the middle of pulling on a pair of shoes. “There are some things for sandwiches if you don’t feel like cooking, and the coffee’s where it normally is…”

“I’m sure I can figure something out, Dad. Go.”

“All right. I’ll see you in a little while.”

“I’ll be here, working on new knitting patterns.”

Daniel flashed a smile and left, leaving Hawkeye alone in the large and very quiet house.

  
  


Hawkeye decided to make himself a cup of coffee, even though he should probably have tried to get some sleep. He didn’t feel _that_ tired, though things had taken on a strange and otherworldly sheen. He measured out the coffee grounds and water and sat down to wait.

A few minutes later he jolted awake, his heart pounding. Fragments of his dream fluttered behind his eyes (a bus, wounded soldiers, Sidney telling him he needed to be quiet and not wake the baby), as he lurched to his feet, poured a mug of coffee, and drained the scalding liquid in a few swallows. Then he poured himself a second mug for good measure and drained that, too.

Halfway through his third cup of coffee, he was pacing the halls of the old house like a panther. He’d forgotten how weak Army coffee was (or maybe just how strong he and his dad tended to make it). On the plus side, the chance for random nightmares was diminished, because he definitely wasn’t falling asleep anytime soon. The downside was that he couldn’t settle down enough to _do_ anything, and the pacing left his train of thought free to run away with him.

_This is probably bad, right?_ he thought. His memories of the few days before the psych ward were jumbled - stitched together from snippets he remembered and things people told him had happened, but he remembered a similar feeling from that time. Like he was flying down a steep hill on his bike with no brakes

_Maybe it’s just the coffee. Or the fact that I haven’t slept in over a day._

_Maybe I should call someone_.

He glanced at the clock in the hall as he passed it. 6:30 AM. _Oh six thirty._ Way too early to call. Unless...BJ was three time zones away. It’d be 9:30 there. Much more reasonable.

Before he realized it, he was standing in the living room, the receiver pressed to his ear, as the operator was placing a call to the Hunnicutt residence in Mill Valley. He fiddled with the cord as the phone rang.

“Hunnicutt residence,” said BJ’s voice, and Hawkeye grinned.

“Hey, Beej, guess who?”

“Hawkeye?” said BJ, sounding half-asleep.

“Got it in one. Get this man a prize!”

BJ said nothing, and Hawkeye heard him yawning through the phone.

“Uh, Beej,” said Hawkeye, an unpleasant thought occurring to him, “what time is it there?”

“Uh...three-thirty AM.”

Hawkeye pressed a hand over his eyes. “Sorry, Beej. Guess I got the time zones backwards. Listen, uh, why don’t I call you back later when it’s not an ungodly hour for both of us? Glad to hear from you, et cetera, et cetera. Don’t take any wooden nickels.”

“Wait, Hawk, are you all--” BJ’s voice was cut off as Hawkeye set the receiver down in its cradle. He groaned and slid down the wall to sit on the floor next to the phone table. His hands were shaking. He closed his eyes and listened to his heart pounding in his ears. After a few minutes, the phone rang again and he flinched. Trying to calm down his breathing, he reached up and unhooked the receiver once more.

“Pierce and Pierce, doctors at large.”

“Hey Hawkeye, it’s BJ.”

Hawkeye sighed. “Beej, what are you doing? It’s the middle of the night for you. I’ll call you later.”

“Look, I was worried, all right? You’re calling me at, what, 6:30 in the morning? The Hawkeye I know would rarely deign to rise before 9.”

“I only called you because I got the time zones backward, like I said.”

“That still means you wanted to talk to someone. You already woke me up. I’m at your disposal, so talk to me.”

“Go back to bed, BJ. You’re lucky enough to be able to get some sleep - take advantage of that.”

“So that’s the problem? You can’t sleep?”

Hawkeye let his head _thunk_ back softly against the wall. “I haven’t slept since the morning we left. Couldn’t sleep on the plane, any of the planes, couldn’t sleep last night. Finally fell asleep in the kitchen chair this morning, but a nightmare woke me up, so I drank enough coffee to drown a horse, and that’s where you find me now.” He paused for a moment, fiddling with the phone cord. “Honestly I’m scared my mental wallpaper is coming unglued again.”

“Well,” said BJ, slowly and carefully, “talking to you now, you seem pretty lucid - as lucid as you ever are anyway.”

Hawkeye chuckled.

“Where’s your dad? You’re staying with him, right?”

“Yeah. He had to go out on a call, so I’m holding the fort on my own.”

“Do you want me to stay on with you until he gets back?”

“No, I better free up the line in case another patient calls. But, hey, wait, did you get home okay? How are things with you?”

“I got home...yesterday morning, I guess. Damn, it was good to see Peg and Erin. I can’t even--I can’t really talk about it. I can’t stop looking at both of them - they’re so beautiful.” He sounded giddy, and Hawkeye couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

“I’m happy for you, Beej.”

“Obviously, Erin’s...not really used to me yet, but I think she’ll come around.”

“Of course she will. In a week or two she’ll be using you as a jungle gym.”

“And after we put Erin to bed, Peg and I made love, and it was perfect, but we thought we’d try to improve on perfection, so we did, about half a dozen times. And then we just lay in bed together and talked.”

“No wonder you sound so tired. All that talking must have taken it out of you.”

BJ laughed. The man was clearly back where he was supposed to be. Hawkeye wished he could slide back into his old life so easily.

“I better go, Beej. Don’t want to tie up the line.”

“Okay. Listen, Hawk, before you go... you’re not the only one having nightmares, if that helps. Don’t drink any more coffee, and try to get some sleep.”

“I’ll do my best. Thanks for calling back.”

“Anytime. Talk to you soon.”

  
  


Hawkeye felt a little calmer after talking to BJ, but it didn’t last long - half an hour later, Daniel called to report that someone had seen his car in town and asked for help with a logging accident of some kind. Hawkeye again asked if he could help, and Daniel again refused, so in lieu of doing anything useful, Hawkeye found his father’s bottle of bourbon and poured himself a tall glass. So what if it was seven AM? As far as his body was concerned, it was half-past thirteen o’clock on the thirty-seventh of Duodecember.

  
  


Daniel came home a little after dark, having put out medical fires all around the town. Hawkeye had finished off the bourbon and made a good start on the illicit porch gin. He was solidly drunk, sitting slumped at the kitchen table, and a little embarrassed for his father to find him in that condition.

“Hey, Dad,” he said, slipping the empty bourbon bottle behind his chair as his father came into the kitchen.

“Hawkeye,” said Daniel, a sad smile on his face. “I’m sorry - this isn’t how I wanted your first day home to turn out.”

“It’s all right - I made my own amusement.” He waggled the gin bottle and the gin sloshed around.

Daniel shook his head, disbelieving. “How can you drink that lighter fluid? It was terrible to start and I don’t imagine it aged well.”

“I’d say I had worse from the still in my tent, but unfortunately that is not the case.”

“Why didn’t you drink my bourbon instead? If I recall correctly, you knew where I kept it.”

Not meeting his father’s eyes, Hawkeye pulled the empty bottle from behind his chair and set it on the table.

“Ah,” said Daniel. He sat down next to Hawkeye. “Did you eat anything today?” he asked.

Hawkeye shook his head.

“I heard you creaking around last night - when’s the last time you slept?”

“I don’t know - I’ll fall asleep for a few minutes, then a nightmare wakes me up. I don’t--I don’t know what to do.” Shadowy shapes were flickering around the edges of his vision. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Daniel after a moment. “I’ll pack us some sandwiches for dinner and we can go do a bit of night fishing. How does that sound?”

Hawkeye shrugged. “Why not?”

Daniel ruffled Hawkeye’s hair affectionately. “And pour that stuff down the kitchen drain - it could use a good cleaning.”

  
  


Hawkeye fumbled his way through untying the old rowboat from the dock. He was still pretty drunk, and it being dark wasn’t helping matters. Daniel set the sack of sandwiches and the fishing poles in the boat, then stepped in himself. He gave Hawkeye a steadying hand to grasp as he slid into place.

They pushed out onto the water, rowing slightly at odds with each other. The little waves lapped quietly at the bottom of the boat, frogs croaked and warbled, and an owl hooted softly from a tree nearby.

Daniel baited Hawkeye’s hook (Hawkeye was grateful for that - in his condition he’d probably have baited the hook with a chunk of his thumb) and handed him the pole. They both cast in opposite directions, and the boat rocked for a moment.

“I’m not surprised you’re having problems sleeping,” said Daniel. “Your body still thinks it’s nine AM right now - it might take a little while to adjust. And grief does strange things - I don’t think either of us slept well for a week after your mother died.”

“What am I grieving for? The war’s over. I’m back home. I don’t have to share a bed with fleas and rats. I don’t have to worry about a shell landing on my tent in the middle of the night. I should be happy.”

“Well, there’s the fact that all those people you got to be close to are all spread out, and you can’t see them as often as you like. Then you’re grieving your old life - you don’t quite fit into it anymore. And you’re grieving your old self. The war changed you. You’re not who you were when you left.”

“What about the nightmares, though? I never had nightmares like this - even after sixty hours of surgery.”

Daniel flicked his pole, testing the line. “You’ve been under stress for so long, I think your body doesn’t know how to relax. You’re convinced you should be doing something, so sitting around is uncomfortable.”

Hawkeye’s head drooped - the rocking motion of the boat was making him sleepy. Dimly he felt his father’s hands catch him as he toppled sideways off his seat. Daniel guided him into a half-lying, half reclining position at the bottom of the boat and gently tucked the jacket he’d brought along under Hawkeye's head for a pillow.

“Sleep well, Hawkeye,” said Daniel, and Hawkeye felt a soft pat on his cheek as he finally drifted off.  
  



End file.
